


Whatever It Is That Girl Put a Spell on Me

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 17:51:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18833704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: The Spellman Sisters relax a little together.





	Whatever It Is That Girl Put a Spell on Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hacklesacademy (ladyvivien)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyvivien/gifts).



“Did you hear the one about the—” Hilda dissolves into giggles. Again. It’s her third or fourth time trying to tell a joke, and she has not once been successful in delivering a punchline. But at least she’s amused herself.

Zelda is not quite so amused. She’s lying beside Hilda on the roof, fingernails clawing into Hilda’s thigh.

“Shit fire and save matches, sister,” Zelda says. “I can endure your benign, rather endearing inanities. But do we have to listen to this trash?”

Hilda’s phone is somewhere on the roof, as well, and neo-folk is streaming from its speaker. Zelda continues,

“I don’t know what this is, but it’s horrible. The lead singer is off-key, and everyone else has apparently followed suit. Banjo is bad enough. But banjo and atonal dissonance?!”

Hilda giggles.

“It’s about the lyrics, Zelds,” Hilda says. “It’s all about hope and rebirth. It’s poetic.” Zelda scoffs:

“There are plenty of songs with poetic lyrics that don’t sound like a coyote being thrashed to death by other, less musical coyotes.”

Hilda giggles again, continues giggling. She takes a breath in between and says,

“You are always just so you, aren’t you?”

Zelda squeezes her fingers against Hilda’s thigh, says,

“I don’t know what else you might’ve expected.”

They look at each other in the moonlight.

xxx

So they’d participated in an exorcism.

So they’d saved a whole town.

So Zelda had impulsively stolen a baby. 

So Hilda had impulsively murdered some people.

So they’d staved off an apocalypse.

So they were the new clergy for a new church.

So what.

Just another day in paradise.

And after just another stressful day, some good kush had seemed appropriate for the situation.

They had deserved a respite. 

xxx

They look at each other in the moonlight.

“I have a confession,” Hilda says confidentially, very serious. “I don’t know what emojis mean. I just pick ones I think are cute.”

“Everyone knows that about you,” Zelda says. Hilda furrows her brow, and Zelda elucidates, “No one in her right mind uses that tsunami one. We all, as the kids say, been knew.”

Hilda’s nose crinkles. But she says,

“What else have you been knew?”

“I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know about having been knew.”

Hilda laughs a full laugh now, snorts, too. She says,

“If we weren’t both stoned I might be offended.”

xxx

Zelda lights a cigarette. But it’s the wrong end. She throws the ruined thing off the roof and lights another, correctly this time. She still tastes her error.

xxx

“I’ve got an idea for a movie. David Lynch should direct it,” Zelda says.

Hilda laughs, says,

“Who else?”

They’re silent for a moment.

“What’s it about?” Hilda says.

“What’s what about?” Zelda says, already lost in another thought.

xxx

They look at each other in the moonlight.

They’re on the roof in the moonlight, looking at each other.

xxx

Zelda stares into the night sky. She may or may not see constellations. She may or may not see artsy films with surreal overtones and sapphic undertones. But still her fingertips dig into Hilda’s thigh beside her.

Hilda’s hand is on the crown of Zelda’s head, and she feels every strand of hair. She’s staring at Zelda’s ear, thinking about how many tiny bones are in there, how many even tinier hairs are in there. Like stars. Like constellations.

xxx

“I could use a Bismarck right now,” Hilda says.

“I’d prefer a bierock,” Zelda says.

“Don’t you wish we had a hot tub?” Hilda says.

xxx

Zelda’s fingertips attempt to dig into Hilda’s thigh. But her left hand is instead scratching against asphalt shingles. Hilda is not beside her.

She bolts upright, heart pounding, thoughts racing:

The Dark Lord has escaped Hell and has taken Hilda as punishment for Zelda’s transgressions.

Hilda has left of her own volition, unable to bear Zelda’s emotional dependency on her.

Statistically, there’s always a psychopath on the loose somewhere, and there’s one now here in Greendale that’s gotten Hilda.

The cops have found out Hilda killed Shirley Jackson and have quietly arrested her. 

Zelda will never see Hilda again.

Suddenly there’s a jar of kosher garlic dill spears in her lap, Hilda’s voice saying,

“I couldn’t remember the spell for bierocks.”

She looks over. Hilda’s sitting cross-legged beside her, dipping a saltine cracker into a bowl of raspberry jam. She scrunches her brow. Hilda says,

“Couldn’t remember the spell for Bismarcks, either.”

xxx

They’re lying down again.

Zelda still wants a bierock. Hilda still wants a Bismarck, but they’re reasonably content. Hilda’s hand is again palpating Zelda’s scalp; Zelda’s hand is again gripping Hilda’s thigh.

“You know what I hate?” Zelda says.

Hilda laughs as she indulges her,

“What don’t you hate?” Zelda is fully in blazed rant mode and doesn’t acknowledge the subtle jab, says,

“Tiny homes. I know I’m not the most reliable source for mortal social justice, but tiny homes are such hipster nonsense. They’re an affront to decency. You have enough money to buy this horrible, small, deliberately tacky thing and outfit it however you like with no regard for the people who are forced to live in a small space out of genuine economic hardship. No regard for the people forced to live in transitory, flimsy structures. You’ve used your plentiful resources to prove you don’t really need them and feel smug and self-righteous about it. It’s cultural appropriation and gentrification at best.”

xxx

Moonlight seeps through the Venetian blinds of their bathroom.

The bathtub is enough like a hot tub.

“These same people who look down on people who live in trailer parks because that’s the best they can do are really buying overpriced glorified campers and decorating them with ugly mid-century avocado appliances and calling it an aesthetic and patting themselves on the back for reducing their carbon footprint. I swear, Hildie—”

Hilda is still indulging her and laughing, but now she’s also nude as she’s doing so. Zelda stops ranting, starts looking at what’s in front of her. Hilda steps into the bubbling cauldron of the tub. She slowly submerges herself, and Zelda watches every inch.

“Don’t stop talking, Zelds,” Hilda says. “I like when you talk.” She relaxes into the water, closes her eyes.

“How am I supposed to talk now?” Zelda says.

“Take off your clothes and find a way,” Hilda says.

xxx

The bathtub is enough like a hot tub.

Zelda undresses. 

xxx

Zelda’s in the nearly scalding water, her legs sliding against Hilda’s.

“You’re not talking,” Hilda says.

“Give me a topic,” Zelda says.

xxx

Their legs slide against each other. Zelda almost relaxes.

The water’s so warm, and the candles are so lavender, and Hilda is so Hilda.

xxx

“Flavored coffee. Go.”

And Zelda’s on another rant about how coffee should just be coffee, how flavored coffee sticks in the back of her throat like obviously fake maple syrup.

xxx

Hilda’s laughing, and the tendons in her exposed neck are so gorgeous.

Her collarbones jutting out over the murky water of the bathtub.

Her mouth emitting the sounds.

xxx

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Zelda says.

“But aren’t we having fun?” Hilda says.

“Too much fun,” Zelda says.

xxx

Zelda is in her own bed. There’s a spinning sensation.

Hilda is in Zelda’s bed. The nude solidity of her makes the spinning stop.

xxx

Zelda is probably dreaming.

xxx

Zelda is not dreaming. This is reality. This is the physical world.

xxx

Hilda’s hands are on her face.

Hilda’s hands are everywhere.

“Oh Zelds.” 

Her voice is everywhere, too.

xxx

It’s the physical world but not.

It’s better than it’s ever been.

xxx

Zelda has the worst cottonmouth. But Hilda doesn’t seem to mind.

xxx

The solidity of Zelda’s bed that includes Hilda’s naked body.

A fuzzy memory.

But a real, actual naked body nevertheless.

xxx

Hilda’s breakfast the next morning is luxurious, indulgent.

Zelda is ravenous.

They both are.


End file.
